BONE HOUSE by Betsy Tobin

as I would not have taken him for the curious sort. He takes a step back, disappearing into the darkness, just as Mary speaks.
    “Even in death, they cannot let her be,” she says with a sigh. I turn to Long Boy and he remains motionless, his eyes fixed to the hole.
    “Come,” I tell him gently. “It is time to return.” He does not even turn his head, and I shoot a questioning glance at Mary, who shrugs her shoulders slightly in response. Samuell bends down and hoists the cover of the coffin back into place atop the wooden box at the bottom of the hole. He kicks some dirt into the hole with his feet, enough to cover the lid loosely with earth. There is something obscene about the sight of the empty box, and once he is done we are all relieved.
    “Long Boy, we must go,” I say again, a little more forcefully. And then I take his arm and gently give a tug. He allows me to lead him away, and as our feet hit the path I see that the painter has vanished from his place beneath the trees. Mary must have seen him too, as she glances at the spot and then at me, raising her eyebrows. She and Samuell accompany us back to Long Boy’s door, where I turn to them and nod my thanks.
    “Do you want me to stay?” she asks quietly.
    “There is no need,” I tell her. She nods, and taking Samuell’s arm, heads off in the direction of the alehouse. Once inside, Long Boy sinks down onto his bed, overcome with exhaustion. He is blue with cold and I move quickly to build up the fire, which has dwindled again in my absence. Once this is done I heat some broth my mother has left and bring it to him in a wooden mug.
    “Drink this,” I order, and he does, taking great gulps of the steaming liquid, just as my mistress does. His eyes wander to the bread on the table and I bring him some, smeared with butter. He tears at it hungrily with his teeth, like a wolf. I sit at the table watching him eat, and as I do I remember the purse of gold stowed beneath my skirts, forgotten in the course of the evening’s events. I reach beneath my clothes and retrieve it, open the purse by its drawstring, and empty the money onto the table. Long Boy watches me, still chewing, but his face remains a mask of disinterest. I could be chopping vegetables or kneading bread and his reaction would be much the same. I wait until he has finished, then point to the money.
    “Long Boy, this is yours,” I say. He looks at me and blinks. “It is from my master,” I continue. And then, thinking I should offer some explanation: “It is a gift.” Still there is no reaction from the boy. I lean forward to him, my voice rising a little.
    “It is a great deal of money,” I tell him. “He wishes you to have it.”
    “Why?” he says.
    “Because we all have need of money,” I reply.
    And then he stands and crosses to the middle of the room, a few feet from where I am sitting at the table. He stoops to the floor and fiddles for a moment with a wooden plank, which he pries up and lifts to one side, throwing the loose board down with a clatter. Beneath it is a hole, and in the hole is a sack of hempcloth which he lifts. It is the size of an infant’s skull and he deposits it with a thud on the table in front of me. I pause a moment and he looks at me expectantly, so I lean forward and peer inside, where I see more coins than I can count, enough to make me draw a sharp breath. I look at him.
    “This was your mother’s?” I ask.
    He nods solemnly.
    “Where did it come from?”
    “From them,” he says simply.
    I grope for words. “She . . . earned this?”
    Again, he nods.
    I stare at the sack of hemp, incredulous. The men of the village collectively do not have this much money: she must have spent a lifetime amassing it. I cannot help but wonder for what purpose. I glance up at the boy, whose face remains blank. He has no understanding of money and its value; it is merely something to be concealed beneath the floor.
    “Does anyone else know of this?” I ask